


Led to You

by ilookedback



Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [20]
Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: (bc of the whole dubcon thing), A Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fairies, Fingering, Mild Angst, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex, big dick ezra, magical creatures made us do it, one instance of 'good girl', very minimal hastily conducted fairy research so don't come here for lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: You feel heat rising in your face, in your chest, unnatural for the cool day. You tug at your collar, the soft fabric suddenly feeling scratchy as burlap against your sensitive skin. Your clothes are overwhelming your body and you wish them off.There is a sound ringing quietly in the air, like high-pitched bells or tinkling laughter. Overhead you see a flash of light dart across the open space between the trees. You turn to ask Ezra if he’s seen it, but he’s looking at the ground, examining the circle around you. His face looks flushed, too.His eyes lift and meet yours and the ache that fills your body is swift and painful. You pull at your sleeves, desperate to get them off.“I’m afraid…” he starts. His deep voice is lower than usual, raspy, and he stops to swallow dryly and takes a shaky breath. “We’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,” he finishes.
Relationships: Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader
Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952407
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Led to You

**Author's Note:**

> For day 20 of my Hyggetober Ficlet Challenge, which is based off of [this prompt list](https://www.instagram.com/p/B201-j7ljdU/?igshid=1pflwcl5260me) and will span several Pedro fandoms. Today's prompt is "fairy lights."
> 
> Baby's first sex pollen fic (except it's not technically sex pollen). At just under 3000 words this does not quite fit the "ficlet" part of this challenge, but oh well. Next time.

You’re not sure where you are. There was a path, clearly delineated, and then, suddenly there wasn’t.

There is a man at your back and your confused mind takes a second to remember: you know him. Ezra. He has been kind to you. He is your friend. He was traveling on the path with you. There was a path.

Was there a path?

Around you now are only trees, a circle of them with no clear breaks to mark the way forward or back.

There must have been a path.

You feel heat rising in your face, in your chest, unnatural for the cool day. You tug at your collar, the soft fabric suddenly feeling scratchy as burlap against your sensitive skin. Your clothes are overwhelming your body and you wish them off.

There is a sound ringing quietly in the air, like high-pitched bells or tinkling laughter. Overhead you see a flash of light dart across the open space between the trees. You turn to ask Ezra if he’s seen it, but he’s looking at the ground, examining the circle around you. His face looks flushed, too.

His eyes lift and meet yours and the ache that fills your body is swift and painful. You pull at your sleeves, desperate to get them off.

“I’m afraid…” he starts. His deep voice is lower than usual, raspy, and he stops to swallow dryly and takes a shaky breath. “We’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere,” he finishes.

He doesn’t say it accusingly, but you remember you were in the lead and any mistake in navigation must have been your doing.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, stiffly, looking away, turning his eyes to the trees again. His hand is clenched into a fist at his side. “Nothing to be done for it now,” he says. The words are forgiving but his voice sounds strained and you wonder if he’s angry. Your brain feels clouded, making it difficult to think. “We just need to—”

“Ezra,” you say. His name tastes honey-sweet in your mouth and you forget the rest of your sentence to say it again. “ _Ezra_.”

He takes a step towards you. His face looks pained but his skin looks so sweet. You think his neck will taste even better than his name on your tongue.

There is another flicker of light overhead and this time he looks up. He turns his head, looking around, and you see his profile so beautifully cut out against the backdrop of green forest, head tipped back exposing the long stretch of his neck, that a wave of longing rushes through you and you think you could cry.

You pull at your uncomfortable shirt again, abandoning your backpack on the ground and getting the stifling garment off over your head.

“Sorry,” you say again. “Sorry, I can’t—I need this off, I can’t think straight—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears. “Don’t do this to me—”

You think he’s talking to you, but perhaps he’s not; he’s still looking up and his eyes are narrowed at something in the trees.

You whisper his name again. When he looks at you his eyes fall to your bare chest and his face crumples, agonized like he’s in pain.

“ _Honey_ ,” he groans. He steps towards you. You reach out, ready to trace your thumb over the line of his collar, and the movement seems to bring him back to himself because he stops abruptly, shaking his head. “Don’t touch—”

It’s too late. Your hand touches his skin and he curses, tight in the back of his throat, and crowds into you, holding firm at your waist and walking you backwards until your back hits a tree. Your whole body feels lit up, along your scalp and all the way down to your feet, buzzing with some strange energy you’ve never felt before.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says. His eyes are wide, pupils heavy and black focused on you. “Don’t touch me,” he insists, but he is still touching _you_ , his body is pressed against yours and his hand has moved to grip the back of your neck, hard enough it makes you gasp. “Don’t,” he whispers, and his head tilts to hover his mouth over yours, sharing together in the same air for a long, quiet moment. You feel his breath on your skin, the heat radiating off him matching your own.

You are aching with want for him, throbbing and empty, and you press your hips forward to push against his, feeling him hard in his pants.

“Please,” you beg. “Please, please, I need—”

He shushes you, cutting you off. He still isn’t kissing you but he’s so close his nose nudges against yours.

“I can’t,” he says. “I shouldn’t. I can’t. I’ll—” His hand flexes at the back of your neck and then his grip relaxes and he draws his fingers over your shoulder and down your chest, caressing your breast before falling lower. “I’ll give you my fingers,” he says quietly, like a compromise. “I can bring you off and you’ll—you’ll get what you need, and then you can go.”

You don’t know what he means—go where? you wonder—but he is already slipping his hand into your pants, under the thin layer of your underwear, cursing under his breath when he feels how wet you are. You feel like you are on fire where he touches you, like there must be hot sparks flowing from his fingertips and shooting into your nerve endings. You cry out, high in your throat, and he makes a low, sympathetic noise, sliding his hand lower to press at your entrance.

“I know,” he murmurs. His voice sounds rough, like it is scraping up through his throat. “I know what you want. But I can’t—These _goddamn_ —” He sounds angry, and then he gentles his tone. “Just take it like this, birdie.” He slides two fingers inside you and it feels perfect and not enough, all at the same time. “Just like that. Good girl.”

There’s a thin sheen of sweat gathering at his temple and you wish you could reach your mouth to lick it from his skin, but he’s got you pinned in place with his right shoulder against your left, and he’s told you not to touch him, so you brace your hands against the soft bark of the tree behind you and force your eyes away from his face to focus on something less painful, like the vague shimmer of light you can see near the ground in a spot at the edge of the trees. It glows dim, almost invisible, but it pulses brighter each time he curls his fingers inside you, every time he makes you gasp. He grinds the palm of his hand against your clit and you close your eyes and just feel, focusing on the heat of his touch and the electric energy flowing through your body.

It builds inside you, high and strong and intense, and you hear a broken whimper and realize it is coming from your own mouth.

“Please,” you say, and you turn your head back to look at him again, finding him watching your face intently.

“Come on,” he murmurs. The low rasp of his voice makes you tremble and his fingers thrust and press firm inside you and you feel the tension break into waves of pleasure, making your breath catch and your knees buckle as your orgasm overtakes you. He strokes over you softly, drawing it out of you, and finally, gradually, he draws his hand out of your pants. His skin is shining wet down to his wrist and he lifts his hand to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his lips. His tongue darts out, fast like he can’t help himself, and he groans, sounding agonized, when he tastes you. Your pulse races and you try to catch your breath.

“Do you see it?” he asks. “You see the path?”

You see the light shift a little in that spot at the edge of the trees, an open space starting to take shape.

Is there a path?

“I think so,” you tell him, “Maybe. But Ezra—”

“Go on, then,” he tells you, letting up where his shoulder is pressing against you. Stumbling back against the tree himself, relying on it to hold him up.

The heat in your body feels like it is starting to lessen, your mind starting to clear just slightly, but he looks worse off, his hair damp with sweat and his eyes all lust-blown. He can’t even look at you. He is barely standing on his feet.

“Let me help you,” you plead.

“I am trying,” he growls, “Kevva help me, I am trying to keep in control, but you need to _go_.”

And finally you realize what he’s doing.

“That’s not fair,” you tell him. “It’s not right, you always talk about—Ezra—” And his name still tastes sweet in your mouth, his skin still looks warm and delicious, even as your body is beginning to feel more like your own. “You _always_ talk about how a partnership has to be fair. Let me help you. I want to.”

He hesitates for a long moment, deep frown creasing between his eyebrows, and finally he slides to the ground, his back against the tree, and looks up at you in defeat.

“Okay,” he says. He knocks his head against the tree trunk in frustration, but his tone is soft. “Please.”

“Okay,” you repeat. Your hands go to your waistband, pushing your pants and underwear past your hips and down your thighs, and he watches you through his lashes, sitting still. He’d be a picture of patience if not for the way his fingers have clenched into a fist again, and the strained tension at the corners of his eyes.

The air is starting to feel cool on your fever-broken body. Your heart is pounding in anticipation as you kneel over him, straddling his legs and reaching for his belt. He tenses, like he still wishes you weren’t doing this, but his breathing is shallow and he looks as though he might die if you stop. You gentle your hands, trying to move slowly, how you would handle a spooked horse.

You say his name softly, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, sighing on the exhale. He moves his hand to your bare thigh and grips your leg, pulling you closer. When he opens his eyes to meet your gaze he is pleading, heated and desperate.

“Please,” he says again.

You open his pants and drag them down, releasing his cock for your touch. For your eyes. The size of him makes your breath catch a little, but you think—your body has been ready for him, wanting him, this whole time. For the unmeasurable stretch in this bewitched clearing, but for longer than that too, you remember now. For weeks, for months, you have been wanting him.

He is so hot in your hand, and so hard, so sensitive when you touch him that he moans out loud, breaths gone panting. You slide your cunt along his length, slicking over him, and his hand tightens on your skin. You might bruise from this but you can’t bring yourself to mind. You hold him in place and sink onto his cock, and your mouth drops open, breath escaping your lungs. He groans, deep, like it hurts him. You go still, adjusting to him, and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth, breathing harshly through his nose. His hips are twitching like it’s an effort to keep still. His eyes are focused on the space between your legs, where your body meets his, and he runs his hand over your thigh and down to your cunt, feeling where he’s driving into you. He gets his fingers wet and grips the base of his cock and you feel him push up into you, trying to get deeper.

“Birdie,” he says. It’s a sweet nickname, but you have never heard it like this before, growling desperate and breathless. “Take a little more of it—if you can. Please.”

Gingerly, you shift up and lower down again to take him a little further. He swears under his breath and drops his hand to your knee, resting his head back against the tree trunk and watching you ride him.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel perfect,” he murmurs. His voice is steadier, face settling calm. You are giving him what he needs. You feel full of him, sensation running deeper than his fingers could bring you. His cock drags inside you, fitted tight into your cunt, and you feel your body heating all over again, matching his feverish glow.

He leans forward, looming into your space, and this time he does kiss you, a sparking press of his mouth to yours. You hold his face in your hand and brace one arm on his shoulder, leveraging yourself to ride him faster, and he gasps and bites at your lower lip.

This was meant for him but it is bringing you close to the edge again too, and your hand falls from his face to reach between your legs and rub over your clit. He breaks your kiss, tipping his head down to watch you touch yourself, and his broken moan is the most intoxicating sound in your ear.

“Let me feel you,” he whispers. “Let me—”

He breaks off, swearing, when you whimper and clench tight around him, so tight you can barely move and you rock your hips and drop your head to his shoulder, pressing your face into the sweet spot of his bare neck as you come. He gasps and his hips jump to thrust into you, cock pulsing and muscles going tense under you.

Somewhere behind the rushed pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, you hear a faint tinkle of bells again, sounding overhead and then fading away until the only thing you can hear is his breath and yours, panting slowly as you both recover.

His head falls back against the tree and he’s looking past you, over your shoulder.

“And there it is,” he says wryly. A little anger underneath his tone, maybe. You turn your head to follow his gaze and find the break in the trees, clear-cut and plain as day.

There is a path.

“Come on,” he says gruffly. He pushes at your thigh, gentle but firm. “We have to go.”

He won’t look at you, not longer than a glance to see that you are following as he leads you both out of the circle of trees and through the woods until you reach the safety of open space on the other side and you watch his shoulders relax, just incrementally. With clear skies above you and horizon around, you finally speak to ask him—what was that place? Your mind has been racing, trying to put it together.

He hesitates, but then he tells you. “It was a goddamn fairy circle. Too easy to stumble upon them, out here.”

“What would have happened if—if I left you?” you ask.

Another long pause, another handful of steps.

“Those creatures are amenable to deal-making,” he says finally. “I would have traded them something and they’d have let me go.”

You wonder what kind of deals they make, what he would have lost in the trade, but you keep quiet after that, too fearful of hearing the answer to ask. Eventually, he picks up again narrating the story he’d been regaling you with earlier, as if nothing has happened, as if—this whole venture was a blip on the radar that now is past.

You follow him down the wide open path and feel the slick still present on your thighs, the deep satisfied ache in your belly, and you don’t think you can forget.

It is days later and your body still stands to attention when you look at him, nerve endings buzzing with want and the memory of his touch. You get distracted by the view of his neck and he catches you, more than once, staring at him when you should have been focused on your work instead. Finally, you give up on holding back and you crawl into his bedroll after dark.

He stiffens, sucking in his breath like he’s bracing himself.

“I want you,” you tell him plainly. “If you want me.”

“You’re still under the thrall,” he warns you. “It should have worn off by now, but—”

“No.” You have done your research, over these few days. You pick up his hand and press his fingers to the base of your neck, where you’ve fashioned a little iron cross and strung it on a ribbon. “I’ve been careful. I’ve got bread in my pocket and my shirt inside out.”

He huffs a breath, disbelieving.

“I just want you,” you say. “I already wanted you before.”

You feel so hot for him, anticipating. Hoping.

He works his hand up to reach behind your neck, pulling you gently closer. “Bread in your pocket,” he murmurs. “I confess I haven’t heard of that charm before.”

“I read it in a book,” you tell him, but the last word is muffled by the press of your mouth to his as he pulls you into a kiss. There are no painful sparks, just gentle warmth that permeates sweetly through your whole body, comfortable and pleasant and making you want to burrow closer.

“Smart girl,” he says. He lies back and pulls you in to settle over his body. “Just don’t get crumbs in my bed,” he laughs, and you pinch his side and bite softly at his lip, and he sighs contentedly and lets you kiss him. Just because you want to, now.


End file.
